


Day 15: Ominous

by mrs_d



Series: Do What I Wantober 2020 [15]
Category: Lucifer (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Episode: s01e01 Pilot, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-15
Updated: 2020-10-15
Packaged: 2021-03-09 00:47:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,385
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27045970
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mrs_d/pseuds/mrs_d
Summary: “And here we are, sheltered under the same tree during a rainstorm,” Morningstar continues blithely. “I’d say it was Divine intervention, but I highly doubt it.”
Relationships: Chloe Decker & Lucifer Morningstar
Series: Do What I Wantober 2020 [15]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1947496
Comments: 4
Kudos: 52





	Day 15: Ominous

The sky is an ominous gray when Chloe stops the car. She adjusts the bright pink garment that she’s been told is a shirt, though she still thinks it looks more like a bra, and verifies that the tiny recorder she’s buried in her cleavage is functional. Then she pulls down the rearview mirror and checks her reflection. 

The sight still startles her slightly, even after three weeks on this gig. She hasn’t worn this much make-up since she was on camera; in fact, when she accepted the job, she had to go out and buy all new products, as her own were long expired. What’s worse, the department wouldn’t approve the purchase as a job-related expense, even though she knows for a fact that other (male) officers have made much shakier claims. 

She smooths out a bit of foundation that isn’t quite blended near the tiny mole under her right eye and puts the mirror back where it belongs before she gets out of the car. Giving the sky another dubious look, she shoves her phone into the skin-tight pocket of her leggings and tucks her keys into her little arm-band pouch — another non-approved expense. By the end of this assignment, Chloe might actually give up her treadmill and run outside, just to get some more use out of these things. She’ll probably skip the make-up, though. 

She heads towards the park, a hidden bit of green space in LA’s concrete jungle. She stops at the entrance and stretches her quads, twists her torso and jogs in place to warm up for her run. Two women, younger than her and walking tiny dogs on purple leather leashes, pass her in the opposite direction, complaining loudly about their husbands. Chloe smiles at them, but they don’t even seem to notice her, which is perfect. She’s just a pretty jogger, another wannabe actress punishing her body and hoping to get spotted by someone important near Hollywood Boulevard. And if she happens to pass a few spots on her route where shady business deals take place, well, that’s surely a coincidence.

So far she’s seen three drug runners, two suspects in a recent car bombing, and one guy she knows is out on parole for assault and battery. Plus a handful of department snitches — no one she works with, thankfully. And, of course, the head honcho himself. 

She only caught a glimpse. It was her first day on this assignment, and she still isn’t entirely sure it was him. She slowed to a stop when she was far enough away that it didn’t look suspicious, but by the time she did, he was gone again, back inside the little bistro. Poring over the case file at her desk later, she concluded that the woman who followed him in was likely the same one captured in the handful of surveillance photos that the LAPD has managed to snap over the last few years. If that’s the case, then there can be no doubt about it. That that’s who Chloe saw.

But there’s been no sign of him since; Lucifer Morningstar, as he’s known in all the shady circles of this town, is practically an urban legend. He owns property all over the Greater Los Angeles area — entertainment venues, mostly, and a couple of restaurants — and seems to pop up here or there without warning. He never slips up, never trusts the wrong person, and always finds a way to evade whichever law enforcement agency is after him at any given time. 

Right now, it’s the LAPD’s turn. Morningstar is a person of interest in a homicide case, a drive-by shooting in front of one of his nightclubs. The victim was a singer with a drug problem, easy enough to write off, except that her ex-boyfriend and former manager-turned-fiancé had turned up afterwards with serious injuries. Jimmy Barnes is still in the hospital, but the doctors say he’ll never be the same. 

The LAPD doesn’t have enough evidence to bring Morningstar in for questioning, and they definitely don’t have enough to charge him. The singer’s death isn’t even Chloe’s case; Munroe over in Organized Crime tapped her when Morningstar stonewalled her own men. Chloe’s lieutenant made a stink about it — as did most of the guys in Homicide — but they needed a fresh approach, and Chloe’s solve rate spoke for itself.

Of course, she’d hoped that, when her big break came, she wouldn’t be wearing two tons of make-up and dressed like a Barbie, but she’d take whatever she could get.

She’s only about halfway through her run, not even near the bistro that Morningstar owns, when the sky opens up in earnest, dumping sheets of cold water on her. She sprints off the trail and under a big tree for shelter, though there isn’t much to be had. The wind has picked up, and goosebumps rise all over her bare skin. She glances down at the mic between her breasts and sighs. If it’s ruined, her lieutenant will probably make her pay for it.

“Guess that’s what I get for not checking the weather before I left,” she mutters, wrapping her arms around herself for warmth. 

She could wait out the rain — if it’s a quick shower, she could still get some surveillance done today — or she could call it, head back to her car and go home. Wash off the make-up that’s no doubt giving her a melted clown vibe, change her clothes, and go back to the precinct. That option sounds more appealing every second that the rain blows in her face, but she’s hesitant to give up too soon.

She pulls her phone out of her pocket, hoping that it’s not water-damaged, so she can check the forecast and find out if it’s worth waiting. But the sudden, sharp smell of cigarette smoke draws her attention away. She raises her head, trying to find the source, and hears a male voice from the other side of the tree trunk. 

“I understand you’ve been looking for me,” the man says. He has a British accent.

Chloe frowns. He’s probably not talking to her, right? He’s probably on the phone. She unlocks her own phone and waits for the weather app to load. 

“Well, here I am, darling,” the man continues. “Against the wishes of my second, no less, who’s convinced you’ve come to drag me away.”

_ Okay, _ Chloe thinks. She doesn’t need to be eavesdropping on this dude’s conversation. She glances up, looking for another sheltered spot she can move to. 

“Aren’t you at least going to talk to me?” says the British man before she can take a step. “You’ve been running by my bistro every day for almost a month, you think I wouldn’t notice what you’re doing?”

Chloe’s blood runs cold. She knows, now, who this voice belongs to, and she’s literally frozen, caught between the urge to run away from danger and the duty to stay and question it. 

“And here we are, sheltered under the same tree during a rainstorm,” Morningstar continues blithely. “I’d say it was Divine intervention, but I highly doubt it.”

She hears him exhale. Wet leaves shuffle under his feet as the smell of his cigarette smoke wafts nearer. She glances once more at the tree she’s chosen, the place she’s going to run to and call for back-up, then takes a deep breath and turns to face him. 

“Oh,” he says, with some surprise. “Well done, Detective.”

She only realizes it when he says her title, but she had built a narrative for herself, a name (Claire), and a story to explain why she ran this route every day. Old acting habits die hard, apparently, and part of her is sad to let Claire go without ever having invoked her. 

“You got me,” she sighs. “What do you want?”

“I want you to leave me be,” he replies at once. He drops the cigarette butt to the ground and grinds it out under one shiny shoe. “I’ve done no harm. There’s no reason the LAPD should be sniffing around my businesses.”

Chloe’s eyebrows jump up in surprise, but she doesn’t speak. Instead, she looks down at his fancy attire. It looks hardly touched by the rain, which means he must have been waiting for her under that tree for some time. His suit fits tightly in all the right places, and she eyes its lines for any indication of a holster. She finds none, and remembers that he’s way too smart to try and kill her himself, especially in public, especially in broad daylight. 

But he’s probably crafty enough to have someone break into her car while he’s delaying her, and ruthless enough to go after the softer targets that that search would yield. 

“Okay,” she says. 

It’s Morningstar’s turn to be surprised. “Just like that?” he says. 

“No,” Chloe replies. Her mouth is bone dry, but she forces the words out. “I’ll leave you alone, on the condition that you leave me and my family alone.”

“You want to make a deal?” says Morningstar, obviously intrigued. “With me?” 

“I don’t see what choice I have,” Chloe says honestly. “If you want me dead, God knows you’ll find a way.”

Morningstar’s lip curls in a sneer. “I don’t kill humans,” he spits. “And if you knew what was really going on, you’d know that it’s best to leave me be.”

The venom in those last three words is almost enough to make Chloe change her mind and run. Her skin is tight with goosebumps again, and the shiver that runs through her shakes her very core. But she straightens her shoulders despite it, and looks him in the eye. 

“I leave you alone, you leave me and my family alone,” she reiterates. “Deal?”

His dark eyes assess her, top to bottom. He seems surprised by what he finds, and almost, dare she say it, impressed. But— 

“No,” he says flatly.

“Why not?” Chloe asks, her heart pounding in her chest.

“I don’t make promises I can’t keep,” he explains, like it’s simple. He catches and holds her gaze. “And I think we can help each other get what we want. What  _ do _ you want, Detective?”

She stares at him blankly. “I— what?”

“What do you desire?” he asks, and if there was venom in his voice before, it’s all honey now. “Come on. It’s all right, you can tell me.”

Chloe frowns, confused. She knew the guy was a criminal, but nobody had warned her that he was a weirdo, too. “Are you trying to use some kind of Jedi mind trick or something?” she asks before she can stop herself.

He blinks, seemingly startled by the question. Maybe he doesn’t know what  _ Star Wars  _ is, she thinks faintly, before he reaches into his jacket and she remembers that he’s a crime lord, and she just insulted him. She flinches, bracing for him to pull out a gun and shoot her— 

But he just hands her a business card. It’s for his nightclub, Lux, the same place where the singer was shot a few months ago. 

“What is this?” she asks.

“I want you to meet me tonight,” Morningstar says, ignoring the question. His eyes dip, trace the outline of her breasts in a way that makes Chloe go slightly warm despite the cold rain. He smirks like he knows. 

“Come alone. Wear something dark,” he adds. “Neon pink really isn’t your color. And leave the microphone at home, would you? Or else I won’t be there.”

“Shit,” Chloe whispers accidentally, and, if he was guessing before, now he knows for sure that she’s wearing a wire.

He doesn’t laugh, but he seems more relaxed now, reassured somehow. “Eight o’clock?” he says, and though it’s a question, he doesn’t wait for a reply before he turns and walks away. 

The rain lets up about ten minutes later, and Chloe heads back to her car, her mind still spinning with the encounter. She sits in the driver’s seat and puts the key in the ignition, but she doesn’t turn it. She has to check first. She has to know. 

She reaches into her scant top to extract the audio device, then pops in one of her earbuds and listens. There’s the sound of her car door closing, the crunch of gravel under her feet. The young women’s complaints about their husbands as they passed her at the entrance. Then her steady footfalls against the trail and the quick pant of her breathing. She hears the tiny startled shriek she let out when the rain started, and nothing after that, besides the hiss of rain and wind. If she strains her ears, she might be able to hear the rise and fall of her voice’s cadence, but she also could be imagining it. There’s no indication that she was talking to anyone, let alone a man who could be one of LA’s biggest crime bosses. 

She removes her earbud and stares out the windshield, thinking. She’s met plenty of criminals in her day, and quite a few liars, and Morningstar didn’t speak like any of them. For whatever reason, she has the curious feeling that he was telling her the truth — or part of it, anyway. 

Chloe considers her options as she drives home to shower and change. The smart thing to do would be to tell Munroe that her cover is blown, and she wants nothing to do with this case. She should walk away, maybe request a transfer to a different precinct just in case, and never touch another organized crime case for the rest of her career.

But she thinks again about Morningstar’s compelling eyes and bizarre questions. His knowledge of who she is, and his assurances that he’s not a killer. Whether that’s true or not, he is a walking mystery, and Chloe has never been good at leaving puzzles unsolved. 

By the time she’s back at the precinct, looking and feeling more like herself, she’s made up her mind. She walks with purpose to her desk, and pulls up all the records that Munroe sent her on the man known as Lucifer Morningstar. 

She has until eight o’clock tonight. So help her God, she’s gonna figure out who the hell this guy is. 


End file.
